


Fate (I Will Welcome)

by Bucksbegins



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Friends to Lovers, Gon - Achilles, Gon's mother is a goddess, Hisoka and Illumi are villains, Inspired by The Song of Achilles, Killua - Patroclus, M/M, Nightmares, Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmates, The Zoldycks are horrible people, killua has PTSD, surprisingly Ging is sort of alright, the song of achilles au, yes you heard that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bucksbegins/pseuds/Bucksbegins
Summary: Gon Freecss was always destined for greatness.When he was born, the gods of the world delivered a prophecy about the boy. One that spoke of talents and glory and fame that would far surpass the greatness of his King Father, and a name so enduring that it would ripple through the world long after his immortal mother had faded into obscurity.This prophecy never spoke of an exiled prince, one who would be there for much of his life and dread every moment that came closer to his death.One who loved him and was loved by him above all else.(Inspired by The Song of Achilles)
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 28
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Killua didn’t know anything about Kujira other than what was obvious – it was small, it was out of the way, and it was the native domain of Ging Freecss, King and conqueror to many other islands and coastal regions across the continent.

He watched from the deck of the ship as the horizon spat out its hazy outline. The morning was sun still snagged under the lip of the water’s edge, bathing the sky in an orange glow that mingled amiably with the deep blue of the fading night above them. He blew out a puff of air and sucked in a cool, salty one to replace it, averting his eyes.

His pacing guided him aimlessly across the deck, stepping easily between sailors and crewmembers whose feet were quick and eyes bright even as their long night shift wound to a close. When the sun peeked over the horizon, they would go below deck and wake their comrades to take their places in swinging hammocks and at card tables while the rest guided the ship into the harbour.

He had wondered what Kujira would look like ever since he was told that this would be his destination. Now, he felt the tension in his body winding as tightly as a bow’s string, worry and doubt strumming teasingly at the sleeplessness of his journey and the suddenness of his banishment. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the island. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to believe it was all real.

His exile was sudden and finite – he would never be welcome again at the only home he’d ever known, and he would lose all honour and status that came with his birthright as the heir to the Zoldyck kingdom.

He startled a little the think of it. The weightless feeling of losing your tether to the earth - it was both freeing and terrifying.

His family were warmongers and good ones. Although he was kept locked away behind the high and impenetrable walls of their castle for much of his life, the stories of his childhood were ones of brutal battles and enemy torture.

Rumours spread like flies on a battlefield and cities across the continent swarmed with tales of the armies in Kukuroo - honed for battle from the moment they could walk, skills unmatched on the field, cruelty unmatched behind closed doors. It was said that all one had to do in a parley was arouse the barest suggestion of the Zoldyck host for the opposing side to wet themselves with fear and surrender.

The ship left churned waves in their wake, each white cap marking another minute past the life he knew and the one that awaited him on Kujira. One more meter between their expectations and his noncompliance. One more breath drawn after his oath.

He turned to face the front of the ship, eyes widening. What had been the suggestion of a landmass not too long ago was all-at-once corporeal. 

A landscape whose trees and rocky coast were sharply painted against the rays of sun that framed it and poked at the edges of Killua’s vision.

They glided towards it and, as the sun rose from its burrow and greeted them with a warm caress, the island became golden and alive - no longer the shadow of a place.

Fishing boats sailed past them, sailors calling out to one another, the fresh team going about their tasks while the retired ones puttered around on deck to take advantage of all the splendours Kujira had to offer. 

They sailed under no flag, this ship carrying nothing of importance to the Zoldyck family besides a chest of gifts; payment to the Freecss for taking in a stray.

They docked on a pier that a trading ship was now leaving, sailing high in the water after unloading its goods on Kujira and taking the simply made local wares of the island on to other cities around the continent.

Killua watched the hustle and bustle of the harbour while crewmen around him began unloading their own cargo onto the well-worn jetty. 

“Come now, Prince, I will escort you to the castle to offer your gratitude to the King.” The old scholar who had been spared to escort him to Kujira spoke behind him.

Killua watched a woman haggle over the price of produce for a moment longer before he pushed away from the worn wood of the ship, “You are mistaken.”

He could feel the old man start at his words, could hear the tightening of his throat as he awaited correction or punishment as many of those surrounding the Zoldyck family were oft to receive at the hands of a displeased master.

Killua adjusted his tunic – unadorned and unimpressive – and turned his face over his shoulder to see the man’s flinch.

The reaction stirred bile in his stomach.

_I am not like you. I never wish to be._

“I am no Prince.”

* * *

Ging wasn’t there.

He had taken leave to thwart an enemy who threatened one of his far-flung territories and wouldn’t be back for a month, at least.

Instead Killua, former Prince of Kukuroo, blood of the Zoldyck line, once-commander of the most bloodthirsty army of the land, was given an audience by his son.

If he had been sent by his father for any reason other than banishment, this dishonour would have been enough cause for a bloodbath that would have left Ging’s island in cinders, their waters bloodied, and their babes unsafe in their cribs. But as it was, his family’s wrath no longer had claim over him, just as his deeds were no longer claimed by them.

He was led through the palace - a sunny stone structure that stretched along the cliff overlooking the bay and bustling city below. The white pillars that supported overhang above the path they walked cut through Killua’s field of vision as his eyes rove the checkerboard of tiled roofs and winding streets below them.

The servant before him cleared his throat and Killua’s feet shuffled to a stop, turning his attention from the circle of the agora at the heart of the town.

The servant gestured to the door.

He was silent as he entered, the door making no sound, swinging out and allowing him to slip by without even the ruffle of fabric.

The ex-prince thought this King’s son would be waiting for him, alert for intrusion or ambush or even expectant of company, but it didn’t appear so.

Killua’s silent breath caught in his throat. 

The King’s son lazed on a window’s ledge, the light of the morning streaming over the tanned skin of his arm which had been thrown carelessly over his eyes to block out the rays.

Killua watched. 

He could kill him. It would be silent and it would be swift. The boy would be none the wiser and he would be gone before the servant returned. Killua would have unsnarled himself from whatever future awaited him here – the uncertain, nameless existence he was imparting upon himself as soon as he knelt before his new foster family. If he did that, he would surely be reclaimed by his own family and returned to them before the month’s end.

The boy looked like he was sleeping, his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly, his body still and limp.

Killua did not want to kill him.

He made up his mind, he would leave the boy to sleep and receive an audience to introduce himself later.

He turned to go, his steps and breath still muffled in stealth.

“Aren’t you going to say _‘hello’_?” The boy's voice rang through the room like a chime.

It startled Killua, but his body stayed relaxed and poised, his brain quick to dispel any shock as he turned back to face him.

The boy was looking at him now, one eye open to regard him while the other remained closed under the fall of his wrist. They looked at each other over for a moment before Killua bowed. He had prepared a speech for The King on the boat, and another for the prince on the walk through the palace, but neither felt smooth on his tongue. 

He had expected a throne room, a tittering court, ears prying for gossip.

Here it was too informal. His recipient wasn’t concerned with long-eloquent speeches or declarations of loyalty. He looked no older than him, and even less interested in formalities than Killua.

“I am Killua.” He said this to the floor at his feet but lifted from his bow to catch his curious eye again, “I’m to be a charge of your father Ging, King of Kujira.”

The boy sat up, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles from his nap.

“How old are you?” He wondered, his knobby knees and gangly arms unfurling.

“I’m 11,” Killua answered. He didn’t know how to address the boy.

They would have been equals once, exempt from formalities and honorifics if they so chose. Now, Killua wasn’t sure where he stood.

The boy brightened, “So am I.”

Killua floundered for a response, but he didn’t need to. A tutor burst into the room, the boys turning to find his red face puckered with frustration.

“Young Prince, there you are.” The tutor bowed, collecting himself, “You ran from your lessons. I’m sorry for interrupting but we must be getting back.”

Killua watched as he slid off of the windowsill and approach, humming a tune that wound through the room and tickled the skin at the nape of his neck.

Killua bowed once again.

“Thank you for welcoming me, Your Highness.” He said, even though the words felt awkward as they spilled from the back of his throat.

He straightened and the boy smiled.

“You can call me Gon.”

* * *

Killua learned that he wasn’t the only charge that wound up under the care of Ging Freecss. 

Plenty of others were conscripted to Kujira and housed within the palace’s white stone walls. He learned this when he was guided to his room where dozens of palettes were laid out along the walls, each with rumpled sheets and knickknacks strewn around on the stone floor.

He had brought nothing with him, save for a lyre that now lay on his pillow.

The wood was dark and simple, no gilding or carvings. It might have been well-made or cheap enough that one song would throw the strings out of tune and crack the base, he did not know. He had never played a lyre before, never held one, not even seen one until the night of his banishment.

His tongue stroked the roof of his mouth absentmindedly, wetting it from the sudden dryness that had come from thinking of that night.

He shoved the lyre under the threadbare palette and answered the summons of the bell that rang through the palace at dusk to collect them all in the dining hall.

He appraised its pillared walls, their view opened up to the fields beyond the palace and the collections of gaming areas and sparring rings that were littered throughout the vast area. It’s vaulted ceiling and the easy breeze of air that flowed across the tables reminding Killua of the ship he sailed on to get here.

The palace was so different from his own – built for sunlight and salt air where the Zoldyck’s fortress was built for resilience and solitude.

Somehow he felt stifled here, all the same.

Killua took up a seat at the end of the long table the boys all gathered to. The one he had met earlier was seated far from him, but even at the farthest end of the table those around Killua still had their eyes turned towards the princeling. Their laughter as loud as those who managed to hear his joke, shouts poised for his ears.

The exiled prince observed these proceedings. He didn’t perk up like the others when their lordling’s amber eyes swung in their direction, nor did he listen closely to the conversation. He either looked at his food or the clambering of boys around him as they wrestled for his attention.

He didn’t want it.

He wanted to fade into obscurity. To melt into the white marble of the walls and disperse among the shadows.

When he had been on Kukuroo, he didn’t want to be the heir. He didn’t strive for the glory of the kill like his father and siblings, he didn’t feel the motivation of pride or rage, nor was he swayed by the thought of honor or bloodlust. He was small and sought to make himself smaller, stealthier, less a boy and more a ghost.

As the days passed on Kujira, he felt less and less like a prince and more and more like a memory.

The other boys paid him little mind, he was no one to them. Just another stray picked up by Ging and shipped to train and one day fight for their foster country. They were all older than him, anyway, and occupied with indulging the excitements of a more important 11-year-old.

He watched them crowd him at breakfast, his enthusiasm lighting all of theirs. Then the wards were off to train and learn. They performed weapons drills together and learned of the geography and history of the continent. Many boys were seventh, tenth, sons of noblemen sent to serve a better purpose than clogging the halls of their father’s homes. Some were exiled, like Killua, others were truly strays Ging had deemed worthy for fostering and spirited away from countries he had conquered.

Killua slipped between the cracks. He did not care for the weapons training. He had no use for them anymore. He did not need lessons. He had learned that and more at the hands of his tutors and councillors.

He was of no importance.

He was not missed.

* * *

“Hey.” Killua was struck by the authority of that word.

It wasn’t a greeting. It was a command.

It halted Killua’s feet, as it was supposed to.

The sun was up, but it wasn’t hot yet in the early weeks of spring, and Killua had thought to make his way down to the city to watch the townspeople barter and haggle in the marketplace.

He watched Gon swing down from the green-budded branches of the tree he had been sitting in and walk up to him.

“Are you going down to the city?” He wondered, glancing back down the road toward the palace.

Killua shrugged.

“I’ll come with you.”

There was no suggestion, no question, just his answer and then his feet were moving down the road.

Killua matched his pace, wary of the assured way Gon stepped and swung his arms and held his head.

It was a proud confidence that came with never being told you’re wrong.

Killua envied it.

“Don’t you have lessons, Your Highness?” He wondered, his eyes sliding towards Gon even though he kept his head towards the road.

He shrugged, a smile splitting his face, “They’ll just have to teach it to me tomorrow.”

Killua was about to reply when Gon’s shoulder nudged his roughly, “And I told you to call me Gon, remember?”

Killua nodded once, but the boy was relentless, grabbing his shoulders and stopping their descent. 

His face was drawn together in focus, lips puckered and eyebrows knotted. 

“Say it.”

Killua’s shoulders were warm under the firm grip of his hands. 

“Gon.”

The boy’s face relaxed, lines disappearing as though they were never there.

“Killua,” He replied.

His name was said in Gon’s island lilt, the tail of it curling up at the end to accompany the smile on his face.

Killua had only ever heard his name spoken as though it was a threat.

Now, it sounded a bit like a promise.

“I’ll race you to that fence post.” Gon shouted, pointing down the slope of the hill, “Ready?”

Killua stopped puzzling, a spark of challenge lighting in his chest.

“Go!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Light will someday split you open; even if your life is now a cage.”
> 
> ― Hafiz

They were friends not at all, then all at once.

Gon slipping from his lessons, finding Killua who had perfected the art of remaining undetectably absent from his own.

They wasted the days together racing, or swimming, or wandering through the underbrush of the forest. 

They looked at the world around them as a new and beautiful thing, all of its colours suddenly vibrant and irresistible.

Killua held his breath. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help waiting for the candles to be lit and to see his family’s grinning faces looking down on him.

He worried that sooner or later this happiness would be taken from him, just like every other joy he’d managed to find in his life before Kujira. 

For his entire life, he only knew the joy that was found in cruelty, the happiness purchased from others' suffering. 

Bliss was something a Zoldyck would never find, not in this life and not in the one afterwards.

It was said that their punishment for a life of destruction and torment was to burn in the pits of Hades. Most Zoldycks took this inevitability as a challenge to wreak the most havoc on earth in order to make their eternal suffering worth it.

The vow Killua made when he was exiled may not have been enough to keep him from damnation and it may not have made him a hero, but it placed him somewhere between slipping through the notice of the other wards while being worthy enough to play and run with Gon.

Weeks passed, and nothing happened.

The other boys didn’t notice his absence.

During the day, they were occupied with lessons, and by the time dinner rolled around they were caught up in talk of practice and in hearing the fantastic stories Gon spun.

Their princeling was as creative as a bard. He would pull tales from fishermen and his father, myths, and old wives’ tales to create new epics for the boys to enjoy. 

Some stories were quick and funny, while others rose and fell, split up into chapters that spanned a week’s worth of dinners.

He let Killua remain anonymous. He didn’t wish to draw attention to him for fear the others would begin to notice that he didn’t attend classes or training.

Only now, Killua was as enraptured with him as the rest of the boys.

When he arrived on Kujira, he couldn’t understand why everyone scrambled for a word or a look from him.

He had scoffed at their desperation and delusions, but now he could see why they bowed and scraped. Gon’s spirit was energizing, his words inspiring. When he shared a look with someone, it was as if he welcomed that person into a joke that was known only between the two of them.

Killua spent his life wishing he could melt into the tiles of the floor, float like dust through the air, anything to avoid his family’s expectations, escape their scorn. 

Suddenly, Killua didn’t want to be a breath on the wind. He didn’t want to fade into a shadow. He wanted to be real, he wanted to be solid. He wanted to be flesh that had arms to wrestle with and hair to pull and legs to kick. 

Something to keep Gon’s interest. 

He wanted to be a face to see and a voice to hear, a presence that would turn Gon’s eyes away from others and focus on him only.

He would listen to the boys talk of him now. Ears alert to the jokes he shared with them and the moments of time that had been sacrificed to them and taken from Killua.

Some bitter, embarrassing part of him would clench his jaw and wish he was no longer invisible. Just so he could wedge himself wholly between Gon and the other boys. He wanted to eclipse the full shine of his affection, taking the entirety of it for himself and leaving only sparse fringes for the others to fight over.

Though cruel and unusual in their execution, the gods must have heard his wishes.

* * *

Ging returned at the end of Killua’s third month on Kujira.

He was brought before his new King. 

He knelt and scraped, gratitude running like a fountain out of his mouth even though they both knew the words were hollow.

He was an exile.

Ging spoke plain and unlike a King, but his voice was strong and clear and reminded Killua of the prince’s.

It demanded that you listen.

“I cannot say I didn’t worry at the thought of having a Zoldyck in my halls while I was away, but Gon has told me you’ve been quite amiable.”

Something in his chest lurched at this remark. 

They had spoken of him. 

Father and son, discussing Killua.

He calmed the thoughts that ticked through his head. Self-preservation kept Killua guarded and secretive, but Gon said what he was thinking, always. He dealt honesty and expected it in return. He never demanded it from Killua, not as a prince to his subject, not a friend to a friend, he had just never experienced deception so he had no cause to anticipate it.

It was another thing Killua found that contracted his life drastically from Gon’s, but he didn’t bring it up and he was glad Gon never asked. The promise he had made the night he was exiled was meant to keep him from lying; from turning him into the son the Zoldycks wanted.

In that way, he was glad Gon never asked about his life before Kujira, about his family, because he didn’t want to tell him. 

If he asked, though, Killua knew he couldn’t lie, despite the fact that for his entire life lies had slipped from his tongue as easily as water over river rocks. Something about Gon’s honest and open face would make it impossible.

There was a snake of fear curled in the pit of Killua’s belly that tightened every night they found themselves on the grassy plains looking at the stars and silence fell between them, every calm moment on the beach or lapse of silence on the walk to town.

He feared that Gon would turn to him with the same scorn his father was now insinuating.

 _I cannot say I didn’t worry at the thought of having a Zoldyck in my halls while I was away,_ The King had said, and his suspicion wasn't misplaced.

If he was a Zoldyck, no one would have been safe. 

Luckily, he was just a boy.

Gon wouldn’t lie to him, either, when he found out.

If he was disgusted, Killua would know. And he hadn’t braced himself to be abandoned by the first friend he’d ever made.

All through his life, he had never let himself get attached to so much as a trinket. He knew that as soon as he did, it would be taken from him – burned, destroyed, killed slowly and painfully. He had let his guard down on Kujira, although he should have known better. Now, even though his family was halfway across the continent, all he could think of were their smiling faces cursing him and his soft heart.

“Your father informed me that you were sent to us because you dishonoured your family’s name and were not fit to inherit,” He paused as if to gauge Killua’s reaction, but the boy’s face was unreadable, “I have been asked to take you on as my countryman and ward. You will accept this?”

The man’s voice turned up at the question, but there was no choice in it.

He had nowhere else to go.

“Yes,” Killua replied, his eyes looking over the man seated on the dais above him.

He could see the princeling in the shape of Ging’s face and the curve of his eyes. There was no doubt that they were of one bloodline. Their ears stuck out the same and their dark hair was equally unruly. Ging had abandoned boyhood long ago and sat on the fringes of youthful handsomeness with his clever eyes and lithe, strong body. Both were merits for his otherwise scruffy appearance, one that better fit a sea captain than a King. 

From what he’d heard of Ging through rumours in town and the palace, though, he was more captain than King, anyway.

He had certainly lived a fortunate life. His piety and cunning meant he was a favourite ruler among many gods, so they blessed his campaigns. He was married to a sea goddess whose father always steered his ships right, despite the husband and wife’s estrangement. Finally, and most fortunately, he had a strong, healthy son who would inherit and bring glory to his Father’s ever-expanding kingdom.

Killua was wary of rumours, though.

The King was honest and succinct and Killua had been in turn, but some part of him couldn’t help but turn it over for a double meaning.

In the Zoldyck court, no one ever said what they meant and nothing was left to lie and be forgotten.

It was as much a battle of wits as it was a battle for survival, and Killua was always left bracing for the next blow.

How could he expect Kujira to be any different?

* * *

Like the dropping of a stone in a stagnant pond, everything around him began to change.

Rumours spread like ripples, first through the palace, then through the town.

How Killua hated rumours.

 _Zoldyck,_ they said.

They spoke of a boy who was so cruel and twisted even his cursed family feared to look upon him.

They murmured of Ging’s insanity for taking in a murderer and miscreant. They whispered of Gon’s safety and the peace of their shores.

Killua ignored their words, but he couldn’t escape their eyes.

People froze when they caught sight of him, they fled the room when he entered, they hid their valuables and warded off evil behind his back.

Since arriving on Kujira, since befriending Gon, Killua had feared the lingering wrath of his family. He could feel their ire like poison seeping through the earth towards him, ready to stuff his mouth and strangle the breath from his lungs. He would lie awake with the lyre pressing ominously against his back, waiting for Illumi to slide through the shadows of the boy’s room and press a knife to his throat. He watched each servant who filled his cup, looking for the vivid purple eyes of Kalluto.

Now, he realized his search had been in vain. His family wasn’t sending anyone, they wouldn’t spare him another thought. They had released him to the world knowing that their reputation would be his doom, no matter where he went.

Their poison wasn’t in the earth, it was in him, and he had been deluding himself to think that his own humanity and resolve could change the minds of others.

Where once he walked the halls in obscurity, whispers now raced around him.

Where once he sat at dinner as though his seat were empty, eyes now took him in.

Where once he was a phantom, now he was a _Zoldyck_.

* * *

Killua hadn’t seen Gon since Ging had returned the week before, either.

He didn’t go to his lessons. Instead, he swung in his and Gon’s favourite trees and walked along the rough road that swept down towards the city. He kicked through the sand of the beach by himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of The Prince.

The wards whispered that he would spend as much time as possible with his father while he was home because it happened so rarely. 

Father and son even took meals together, much to the bored wards’ chagrin.

The ex-Zoldyck had taken to hiding himself away.

Whether that was in the forest or the cool tunnels that connected the storerooms under the palace, he wanted to be out of sight.

He wanted to be away from prying eyes and whispers barely concealed behind cupped hands.

Mainly, he wanted to hide from Gon.

He must have known by now and still, Killua had not seen him.

His mother had always called him melodramatic. Noticing the changes in his posture and the tug of his eyebrows when he was angry or upset. She told him that he should do better to conceal his emotions, lest someone use them against him.

If she saw the way he was acting now, shoulder slumped, clutching his knees to his chest, mouth downturned for all the world to see, she would have had him whipped.

He lay on the roof over the boy’s quarters, watching the clouds float by and listening to the shouts and thuds from the sports rings passed the dining hall. The heat of summer was giving way to the crispness of fall and there was a breeze that blew off of the water and cooled his skin, reminding him that the sun was near the horizon and it would be time for dinner soon.

Killua rolled the idea of tossing his fragile body over the cliff face. He imagined the crack of bones on impact. The churning water that would fill his lungs if he wasn’t already dead. His swollen, broken body smashed against the cliff face until he was nothing but foam and remnants of a boy, his soul slipping seamlessly into the body of some fish swimming by. Maybe then he could visit Gon’s mother and tell her stories of their adventures over the past few months. How radiant and untouchable her child was, how his light had shone so brightly it made the shadows within Killua less frightening, less real.

He didn’t have time to contemplate it any further when a voice cut through his musings.

“You really thought you could hide from me up here?” Cool and crisp as the autumn breeze.

Killua didn’t look shocked or happy or fearful, though he felt all of these things press into his chest as he shifted his leg to find Gon’s head peeking up from the edge of the roof.

“Eh?” Killua answered, quite disrespectfully.

He didn’t care. He beat down any other feeling and maintained his boredom and indifference. What was so important that the little Prince had to seek him out?

He watched as Gon hoisted himself up onto the edge of the roof, lifting a bony knee to scramble up.

They had learned the first time they’d climbed the roof that the tiles weren’t very stable and had a tendency to slip out under their feet and smash on the ground of courtyards, much like their heads would if they fell. Despite himself, Killua reached out and clasped a hand around Gon’s elbow, hauling him up the rest of the way to sit next to him.

Gon’s wide smile was spread on his face before he’d even sat. 

Killua tried to maintain his air of apathy, but when he looked at Gon with a narrowing of his eyes, for greater effect, the boy simply nudged their shoulders together.

“I know you like sneaking around, Killua, but you should know that I’m never going to leave you alone. I like you too much.” Gon said simply.

His honestly fell like a spear in Killua’s chest and made it a little harder for him to draw breath.

Gon had no shame, for he had never been ridiculed.

Killua burned with it.

“Why would you say something like that?” Killua demanded, his cheeks wind-worn and rosy from laying in the sun all day, but he could feel the heat rush to them. 

He wouldn’t lie to Gon. But he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be as honest, either.

Gon turned his eyes to the horizon, “Because it’s true… We have lots of fun together, don’t we? I missed you this whole week.”

Killua pulled his knees towards his chest, “You were just upset your father made you go to your lessons...” He accused.

Gon laughed, bright and clear. It was carried by the wind and Killua was sure that in its pureness and freedom it will be carried up to the gods to have divine melodies woven from it.

“Maybe I was.” He said, “But I still missed you.”

Killua met his eyes – impossibly bright, insatiably captivating. He imagined the light in there reserved for him and him alone, like a lightning bug caught in his hands.

He knew better.

Killua didn’t know what this rising in his chest was. There was a buoyancy to it, but it also felt constricting and so impossibly big.

It almost crushed him to think about it.

“Come with me.” Gon said simply and slid towards the ledge again.

Over the past few months, Killua had learned that Gon's commands weren't intentional. It was just that as a Prince, he'd never had to ask.

He slipped easily through the window below and Killua swung down after him.

Gon hadn’t moved from the ledge and they crash together, a tangle of limbs sprawled on the floor of the boys’ room.

Killua cursed at him and Gon laughed and it didn’t feel like any time had passed since they’d last seen each other.

They stood after a few well-placed shoves and Killua was faced with a number of the other wards who had returned from their afternoon lessons and were preparing for dinner.

Their greetings were all directed towards Gon.

“Come, let us take you for dinner, Your Highness.” One of the more courageous boys encouraged, casting a guarded look at Killua.

He kept his face neutral, but Killua’s fear constricted quietly beneath his ribs. Surely, Gon would cast him aside now that others had made their worries plain.

“I’m dining with The King tonight.” Gon replied, to groans of disappointment from the rest of the boys.

He turned to Killua whose spine was steeled, eyes calculating the boys nearest to him.

“You’ll walk me?” Gon wondered, his attention turning to Killua alone.

There was an intake of breath from one of the boys.

“Your Majesty,” One said through gritted teeth, “Do you think it’s the best idea to travel alone with a... _Zoldyck_.”

There it was. The word that laced the air with a tension Killua could taste.

He had already made his calculations and Killua braced himself. Whether it was words or punches, he’d be prepared to receive them.

Every muscle in the room was tight with anticipation when Killua felt a relaxed arm slip around his shoulders.

“Don’t tell me you believe all of those rumours going around!” Gon’s mockery shattered the atmosphere, although attention was still fixed on Killua.

Gon tugged at his neck, “Killua can’t even beat me in a wrestling match, what are you so afraid of?”

Annoyance and relief flooded Killua at the same time. He pinched his friend’s side.

Gon was the son of a goddess and still marvelled that not even the best-trained child-solider his age could best him.

His easiness melted the rest of the worry in the air and the boys in front of them uncoiled, their hands uncurling as they relaxed their stances.

Gon removed his arm from Killua’s neck and he chanced a look at the boys that still stood in front of them, meeting their wary gazes with a calm look of his own.

He didn’t know what they saw, whether it was Gon’s ease or the evidence of morality in his eyes, but Killua no longer felt the pierce of their gazes on the back of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope
> 
> \- Abu Nuwas

Ging was set to leave after the equinox and not return for the better part of the year.

Unless there was a threat to be fought or a weak territory to take into his gracious protection, he spent his voyages meeting with the governors who ruled in his stead and allies who held the nations he had yet to usurp. While on Kujira, though, he went to town and discussed trade and goods with the vendors and store owners, ensuring his stronghold was receiving the steady flow of trading vessels that had been routed their way. 

He visited stalls and shops as though he was a normal patron, inspecting wares and chatting amiably with those who came to greet him. He smiled and clapped familiar faces on the back, asking after spouses and children as though he had just been with them all last market day. After all, Kujira had been the home of Ging’s family for generations before he had married a goddess and set his path towards glory and wealth. 

When his affairs were set in order, Ging went up the mountain.

Killua wondered if it was a ritual, something he was required to do for a safe voyage or a successful campaign. When he asked Gon, the boy simply replied that he was going to visit an old friend.

* * *

Killua was exiting the dining hall with the boisterous flow of boys when his well-trained eyes picked up the shadow of a spikey-haired boy tucked behind the pillars that lined the hall out towards the gardens.

He wasn’t sure if Gon was waiting for him, but he slinked away from the group and approached his hiding place.

“Why weren’t you at dinner?” 

Killua meant it as a question, but it was barbed and jagged when it came out of his mouth. Gon had been returned to them the night Ging left to settle his affairs on the mountain, but Killua could only assume his pilgrimage hadn’t lasted long. Gon was eager to enjoy the embers of his father’s company before his departure.

“Come with me,” Gon said, not answering him, “We need to speak with the King.”

Something about this was strange. It made the hairs on the back of Killua's neck prickle.

Killua trailed listlessly behind him, wracking his brain for the reason they would be meeting with the King.

His stomach rolled as he imagined be punished for missing lessons – and making Gon miss his as well.

Ging was going to send him far away from the island, to be trained and taught by firmer hands who could get a handle on the misbehaving Zoldyck, he knew it.

His worry faltered his steps.

“Why are we going to the King?” Killua’s question echoed through the corridor, weaker than he intended.

Gon turned to him, his shoulders relaxed and his face void of worry.

“Ging has spoken to his old friend, a skilled teacher and master, who has agreed to take me on a student,” Gon explained.

Killua’s stomach fell away and the morsels he’d been able to swallow at dinner swirled nauseatingly in his stomach. 

Ever since he heard the nature of the King’s free spirit, Killua had a gnawing worry that he would want to show off his prized heir and warrior son throughout his territories. 

This news confirmed his fears.

This was much worse than being sent away. 

Gon was going to be taken from him, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t clench his teeth through a beating to prevent it, he couldn’t yell and scream or cry and beg for it to be different. 

He was no one here, he had no say.

Killua swallowed thickly. He had always known it wouldn’t last, this adventure they were on, he just didn’t expect it to be taken so quickly and suddenly. 

Perhaps Ging had spoken with his father before he’d returned. He could imagine the two of them hunched together - their voices low, moralities lower - as they planned this long, drawn-out form of torture.

“I want to ask for you as a companion.” Gon continued, “So you can come with me.”

Life’s breath blew back into him. The crushing weight that had been squeezing his chest released in a gasp.

Gon didn’t use the word “companion” either, he said ‘ _Therapon’._

That was much more than a ward, or a friend, or a mentor. 

They would be brothers-in-arms, bound together in loyalty and blood. Killua would be responsible for Gon’s safety and honour on the battlefield. He would be privy to his darkest thoughts and most conflicted decisions. They would be sworn by oath to each other until death.

The boy’s head cocked in worry, “Is that alright with you?”

Killua’s tongue felt like sandpaper. He was so relieved he could only nod.

He watched Gon approach the door to the study, trailing after him like the ghost he once was.

They entered, Killua remaining in the dark shadow of the door as Gon approached his father. The man sat near the crackling fire, a ledger spread on his knee and a furrow knotting in his brow.

“Father.” Gon sat across from him, “I’ve come to ask your blessing.”

Killua didn’t hear him call the old man “father” often. 

He was a heroic figure to Gon, but his warmth had long been drawn to distant shores. Gon considered his priestess aunt and his father’s ancient keeper-of-the-house as his closest family. Killua didn’t hear much of his mythical, immortal mother. He had never asked.

“For what allowance?” Ging prompted, closing the ledger.

If he noticed Killua in the corner, he said nothing.

“I wish for a companion before I begin training with The Master.” Gon bowed his head, the flame light licking the planes of his smooth, tan face.

“A companion…” Ging’s sharp eyes turned from Gon’s to seek Killua out in the darkness, “And who might that be?”

The boy blew out an even breath to keep from tensing under his sharp gaze.

“Killua.” Gon said his name and his fear was relieved, just a little. His voice held no shame, no hesitation. His statement was simple and unabashed.

The King gestured him forward.

“You wish for this boy as your companion?” He did not evoke his family name, but Killua could feel it strung tightly under his words as he came to stand next to Gon’s chair.

Under that scrutiny, Killua wished he had remained in the shadow of the door.

 _A Zoldyck?_ He could hear echoing from a hundred mouths in the past weeks.

Gon nodded.

The King paused.

“I have brought you more companions to choose from than stars in the sky,” Ging said, his voice not cross, but tense with uncertainty.

“And I have chosen this one.” Gon said confidently.

Heat rose in Killua’s cheeks. Something like shame burned the tip of his ears, although it was not shame. He forced his breath to even out and regulate the steady beating of his pulse, trying to slow its speed in his chest, his neck, his wrists, his knees.

“I won’t change your mind?” Ging wondered.

The offence of his words was short-lived. They all knew that there were many in the palace who admired Gon, who wanted to lean on his glory.

Killua was the only one who needed him.

That bred loyalty stronger than any oath.

“Not if you gathered every star in the sky and laid them out for me to choose.” Gon affirmed, his chin jutting out defiantly.

That loyalty, returned, was as good as binding.

Ging looked at Killua, and he hoped the old King could see the resolve in his eyes.

“Very well, you will go to your aunt and have it done. Tell the servants to move his things.”

* * *

The ceremony was simple. Barely any different than offering up a sacrifice on a holy day.

They went to the crux of the island’s mountain, where the cool streams that flowed down towards the ocean met to form the river that watered the plants and people of Kujira.

There they bathed, scrubbing away the dirt of their daily life. They cleaned the wounds of childhood play and drank the sparkling waters. Even though this was a solemn service, Gon splashed and frolicked through the waters as though they swam for leisure.

Killua was happy for it. It made the severity of their ceremony lighter.

He never thought he would do this with anyone. 

When he had been a prince, he swore to himself that no one would sit council on his decisions or swear to protect him through their own blood. He couldn’t stomach the idea of exposing to his family the people he held most dear.

But here with Gon, so far removed from lies and secrets, his pulse was steady and his hands sure as they cut into their animal sacrifices, the blood spilling red and warm into the gold bowls laid before the altar.

First, they offered to the goddess of wisdom, one who favoured Gon and his gifts. Gon asked for strength of mind, that his decisions would be to please the gods. Killua asked for wisdom to council Gon, to help guide his path towards honor.

Then they turned to each other, animal blood cleansed from their hands, and pricked their thumbs pressing them firmly against one another and repeated the oath Gon’s Aunt Mito dictated.

When the oath was done, Gon held Killua’s hand fast and stared him down over the press of their thumbs and the blood that welled up between the pads of their fingertips.

The other’s blood now flowed through their veins. Where one was, the other would be sure to follow. Their fates would be bound until the day they died.

As Killua watched Gon, the determination clear in his eyes, he hoped that day was a very long time from that moment.

* * *

Killua had been plagued by dreams since he left Kukuroo.

His father’s halls had been full of flashing swords, the crack of whips, bone protruding through flesh, endless rivers of blood and other horrors he’d grown numb to. 

In the endless green and laughter of Kujira, these visions still plagued him.

In the boys’ room, he had never let himself sleep deeply enough to whimper and thrash with the terror of it, his mind lifting him from the depths of his slumber to walk the fragile line of being awake under the darkness of his eyelids.

When he slept on the pallet in the corner of Gon’s room for the first time, his body crashed to a slumber that pulled him into the depths of his fears and his past.

He saw the scene play before him – the night he had been exiled.

He was out of the walls of the fortress, well-placed bribes and the cover of shadows giving him a breathless escape into the winding streets of the city that lay beyond.

It was the King’s birthday. An event that was celebrated in the palace with the same withering glances and sneaking suspicions that went hand and hand with every court event in Kukuroo. 

In the city, though, the townsfolk let loose. Their usual curfew and restrictions loosened until dawn the following day. He wandered the road, following the flow of drunkards and gamblers that staggered from tavern to tavern.

His life before that had been about control. Control of the mind, body, and temperament.

That night, he didn’t need liquor to be intoxicated by the atmosphere of the city.

The laughter and shouts of glee from open windows and card tables on the street were enough to make him dizzy with the wickedness of it all.

Then he had heard it – a beautiful melody muffled through the din of a hall packed with townsfolk. 

He followed the sound.

Inside, lounging on the dais at the end of the hall, a lyre player plucked an intricate and delicate melody that paired with the trill of his voice. Killua couldn’t hear the words, so he went closer.

He had known it wasn’t a good idea. His heart pounded wildly each time he dreamed it. Stepping through the hall towards the lyre player and sitting across from him to listen.

The man noticed his interest and after a few songs, his playing stopped – not that anyone noticed in the chaos of the hall – to speak to him.

They hadn’t talked about much. They spoke of the instrument and Killua asked for the names of the songs he had sung. 

It was an inconsequential conversation, but something about it made Killua thrill. No one knew who he was. They weren’t trying to use him for their own gain or trick him into agreeing to their plots. He didn’t have to think through every word that was exchanged, he just had to say what was on his mind.

The only thing that made this part a nightmare was knowing what was going to happen at the end.

The scene twisted and he stood beside his father, the lyre player sprawled on the grey stone of the throne room. His hands were fingerless stumps, the blood of them soaking his shirt sleeves and pooling on the ground around him.

His brother – the one tasked with the severing of fingers – smiled up at him with a toothy, bloody grin, his hands smearing the red, holding the ten fingers tight in his pudgy fists. His prizes for a job well done.

Killua’s face was stone, but what he did next was worse than betrayal in his family’s eyes.

He showed the man mercy.

He stepped away from the throne and approached the musician, a hidden blade flickering out from his sleeve and cleanly cutting a thin, deep line in the man’s throat. The light drained from his eyes in moments instead of the agonizing minutes it would have taken to bleed out from his hands.

Killua’s breath shuddered to remember the screams that had just stopped ringing around the hall.

He didn’t turn back towards his father as he wiped his blade and tucked it away.

His mother’s livid expression said all he needed to know. 

He was weak, he had shown that he was incapable of leading this country. He was not an heir.

In his dream, his siblings clutched at him. Their mouths all full of blood and entrails, their eyes wide and afraid. His mother was screaming, so was the lyre-player.

He couldn’t see his father, but he knew he was coming. 

There was an urgency in his bones, his muscles coiled tightly but unable to move. 

He had to leave, he had to get out of the castle as quickly as he could, but his siblings’ hands wouldn’t release him. 

He couldn’t shake them off. 

His limbs were weak and he was slow. 

His father was coming, he had to _leave_.

The hands on his arm pushed him down. They constricted the muscle of his upper arm and shoulder and suddenly his limbs weren’t useless anymore. He struck out, his hand and legs moving from instinct and practice, locking around his assailant and launching his full weight against them. He was panting, the sweat of his back making the sleep shirt he wore cling to his skin. It took a moment for him to understand that the person he had locked under him was Gon, his arm twisted behind his back and his face pressed into Killua’s pillow.

His muscles relaxed and he released him, the well of fear that choked him rushed out in a gasping breath.

Gon twisted under him, turning to look up at Killua. He didn’t look afraid, he didn’t even look shocked, he just watched Killua as he panted and clutched at his chest, getting his heartbeat back to a steady rhythm.

“I’m-” Killua said finally, his apology caught in his throat as he moved off of Gon, “You can go back to bed.”

He collapsed down onto his sweaty pallet as Gon stood and crossed the room.

Killua threw an arm over his face and tried to calm the trembling in his fingers. 

He had nightmares all the time, but this one had been vivid, complete with his brother’s dark, soulless eyes and his mother’s shrill screams. 

He reminded himself that they were far away. 

His body was trained not to need as much sleep as the average person, but it was amplified by these visions that haunted his head. He wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

He heard Gon shuffling around and removed his hand at the sound of his name.

Gon stood over him. He had lit a candle and the orange flicker cast a warm halo around his head. In his hands was a new nightshirt, one of Gon’s.

“Go wash.” He said.

Killua hesitated but was too exhausted to argue with him, so he stood and took the shirt with weak hands, going to the washbasin and running the cool damp cloth down his face and the back of his neck.

He watched as Gon flipped his pallet, casting the sheets off. Killua stripped out of his nightshirt and wiped the sweat from his chest and back, putting the new one on. Its fabric was soft and warm and smelled like salt and cedar.

When he turned back, the Prince, his master and superior, was arranging the sheets from his own bed on Killua’s humble place in the corner. He opened his mouth to protest, but the weakness in his body prevented the words from taking form on his tongue. Instead, he shuffled back towards Gon, the boy directed him under the sheet and sat next to him.

He lay on his back, his body spent but his mind flicking through the grotesque images of his dream.

The tavern, his brother’s collection of fingers, the lyre he had scrubbed blood and gore from on the deck of a merchant’s ship.

That same instrument glinted in the candlelight, set upon Gon’s knee.

Killua’s body had an exhausted, jolting reaction to seeing it in front of him after it featured so vividly in his night terrors.

Gon held it gently, appraising it through the dark, “Do you play?”

Killua shook his head, forcing his body to relax on the canvas mattress. His mouth opened in protest or caution as Gon raised a hand to it but was rendered speechless when he strummed it.

It was barely a noise, but it froze Killua’s words in his throat.

He watched Gon tune the strings and strum again, listening for any imperfections. His eyebrows were pulled together in concentration, lips pouted and chin jutting over the curved wood.

Killua’s soul shuddered when he began to play.

He sang quietly as he plucked and Killua recognized the song – it was the tune he’d been humming the day they met.

He sang in a language Killua didn’t know, but the sounds he made with the hissing of his teeth and roll of his tongue seeped into the marrow of Killua’s bones. It calmed his racing heart and sent a finger of stillness down his back.

He plucked around on it for a few more moments before his fingers stilled and he extended it back towards Killua.

Killua didn’t reach back for it, his body immobile on the bed, “Can you play again?”

It was the only thing he’d brought from his home. It was the only reminder of his life before this. 

For months it had sat under his pallet in the boys’ room. The hard lump of it had pressed into his back night after night, waking him with memories of beatings and the sensation that someone was standing over him - watching him, planning his downfall. 

In this light, though, it looked docile, gleaming in Gon’s hand. 

He used it to weave fine melodies and soothing chords while Killua had only used it to remember the vow he made against his family and a night that sent ripples of unease through him even now.

He remembered the lyre player in the tavern. How his face, too, had glowed and gleamed in the firelight, a smile on his lips as he played like the one on Gon’s.

It had been the first genuine smile or whisper of unselfish good-will Killua had ever seen. He had been taken aback by it, but there had been hope in his chest when his questions were met with answers and his curiosity with honesty.

The lyre player had shown him kindness, and he had been unable to save him.

His fingerless hands and sodden lyre hid in every fear Killua had since leaving Kukuroo.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake with Gon; one who had shown him joy and hope far beyond that musician.

He had made an oath the night he left Kukuroo. He was going to become the worst Zoldyck in history. 

He would betray his family with kindness and honesty, good-will and heroism.

As he watched Gon play, he realized that until that moment, the lyre had been needle prodding his back in the night as he slept, making his choice feel like a failure instead of freedom.

He saw now that he and the lyre both deserved to move beyond that. They had a new life, a new purpose.

Gon played until the grey light of dawn filtered through the windows and they agreed to go down to the ocean for a morning swim.

The lyre was extended back to him, but Killua denied it.

He wanted Gon to have it, simple and old as it was, to leave his past in his friend’s hands and surrender its purpose for his use.

Killua was prepared to give him much more than a lyre to prove it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The earth never tires,  
> The earth is rude, silent, incomprehensible at first, Nature is rude and incomprehensible at first,  
> Be not discouraged, keep on, there are divine things well envelop’d,  
> I swear to you there are divine things more beautiful than words can tell.
> 
> \- Walt Whitman (Song of the Open Road)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I'm super been busy with school at the moment, but I want to get the next three chapters posted asap so you can all have the conclusion of the first arc before I go into my finals.

Killua had been faced with many things in his life that would make an adult man wet himself with fear, but this was the first time he had ever met an immortal.

It was even more shocking when said immortal was slick with seafoam and scales and looked at him with luminous black eyes that he was sure would trap his soul, were she to find a way to release it from his body.

One morning, Gon had returned to their room smelling of salt and dripping water from the edges of his tunic. When Killua had inquired after it, Gon told him that he’d been out to visit his mother.

He then told Killua that she wished to meet him.

As he looked upon her, he regretted ever wanting to cast himself from the cliffs, for he was sure Gon’s mother yearned for his soul to end up in her domain - i t would please her to torment it for the rest of her immortal life.

The only thing he was scared of in this life was losing Gon and it became clear only moments after stepping into the surf that separating the two of them seemed to be the one thing his mother wanted to ensure.

It was at this time that Killua learned of the prophecy that Gon had been born under. The reason he had never seen him fight with a sword or spear.

Gon was to be the greatest warrior of them all. A legend that far surpassed even his father’s acclaim. A name that would live on when all heroes that came before him faded into obscurity.

Gon’s mother had told him this to scare him, he knew. She wanted him to run from the glory and the responsibility. After all, hero’s stories were never easy paths. She extended her clawed fingers towards him and offered the chance for Killua to break his vow – something only a god could sanction.

Gon hadn’t been there.  He remained in the palace, either in lessons or in wait, but Killua could feel him. He could feel the string that bound their lives together as distinctly as the tug of a fishing line at the end of a pole. And she was asking him to sever it.

She had licked her lips when she saw the contemplation on his face; to risk life and limb beside Gon or remain in peace on Kujira.

The answer was simple and it was immediate. 

He contemplated only so the goddess felt her loss more acutely.

He would not part from Gon.

When she heard him say it, her face twisted in disdain. She shimmered at the edges, her skin flickering like heat off the desert sands and he could feel her contempt from where he stood. He didn’t turn away.

“He will be a god,” She spat through sharp teeth.

He simply stood there - the surf lapping against his knees, sand burying his feet to the ankles.

“You are mortal. You will die,” She finished.

“Then I will die by his side,” Killua said simply.

If his words had any effect on her, she didn’t show it.

He blinked as the waves reflected sunbeams into his eyes and when he opened them, she was gone.

* * *

They were informed that their lessons with The Master would begin the morning after Ging’s departure from the island.

They would be making the trek by foot. A journey that would take them through dense forest to the opposite side of the island where they were not often allowed to venture. It wouldn’t be a long distance to travel. If they left at dawn, they were sure to arrive at the master’s door before the sun touched the horizon, but it was more daring than their normal excursions into the woods near the palace.

They were equally excited to be unleashed on the island - their age and companionship finally affording freedoms they’d had to dupe from the restraints of tutors and trainers up to that point.

Killua barely slept the night before they were to leave, listening to Gon’s matching restlessness on the bed near him.

They were up while the moon still shone, packing their supplies and playing games with whispers that turned to a pitch that would surely disturb anyone sleeping in their room’s vicinity.

When the sky began to lighten, they dressed and collected their packs, racing to the kitchen to retrieve the cook’s expertly wrapped rations for their strenuous day and stuff their mouth with hot bread and overripe fruit.

Gon raced Killua to town, wishing to see his father off at the docks before they began their hike to The Master.

They beat the crew and Ging to the armada that waited in the port, their feet slapping on the packed dirt of the road as they ran through the streets. Those still laid out from the night before being chastised off of the street by those waking for the new day. Street cats scattering at their approach.

The boys jumped onto the ship, startling the bleary night watchman who seemed as though he hadn’t entirely missed out on the revelries of the crew’s final night on the island, an empty bottle of wine dripping its contents on the deck with the gentle sway of the waves.

Gon jumped between the oars that rested on the deck, the low, sleek style of ship different than the one Killua had travelled in to get to Kujira.

He took a moment to run his hand over the smooth wood of the rail, marvelling at how his chest had squeezed in fear then and swelled in excitement now.

Gon pulled him to the rudder and the sails, pointing out the figurehead which was a depiction of Gon’s mother. 

Killua looked at it, a shiver running through his body as he attempted to marry the chipped paint and billowing hair with the black eyes and sharp teeth he’d encountered on the beach. He turned from the figurehead, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up despite himself.

She was frightening enough to lead the way for Ging’s company, he didn’t doubt it.

Ging arrived before his crew, the bulk of them draining slowly from inns and taverns around the city as the sky was painted gold with the suggestion of dawn behind the island.

Gon and Killua remained out of the way, watching Ging give orders and his crew carry them out. They watched until they were sure the sun must be up over the water and the crew had successfully prepared them to depart.

Ging clapped a firm hand on Gon’s shoulder as they stepped off onto the pier, giving him low words of advice or support, Killua couldn’t hear.

The King turned to Killua with a nod. He didn’t say anything, as there was nothing that Killua didn’t already know.

He would protect Gon with his life, he would stay on the island, he would not disgrace the name of his King.

As their bright sails carried them from the bay, Gon turned his eyes away from the water and towards the opposite end of the island and their goal – the mountain.

Killua followed his gaze, the peak knifing into the brightening blue of the sky - its eastern plane gold, its western veiled in shadow.

“Are you ready?” Gon wondered.

Killua turned to find Gon watching him. He was relaxed, assured.

A smile came to Killua’s face with ease he’d never imagined possible before coming to Kujira.

Gon reflected it.

“Let's go."

* * *

Killua could understand why the wards were kept close to the palace. The forest there was lush and green, but sparse and unpopulated compared to the rest of the island.

As their path wound them further from the palace and town, they encountered plants and animals of breed and brethren Killua’s limited imagination could never have conceived. His eyes saw, but his mind couldn’t grasp the creatures or the wonders he marvelled at in the depths of the forest and on the jagged paths of the mountain route. They stopped only to eat their rations and drink from the cool stream they encountered - crystalline rocks forming the riverbed, winking sunlight back at them.

Their ascent brought them around to the northern side of the mountain, the trees giving way to rock that gave way to a steep and jagged fall. Gon led them up the ledges and levelled areas that wound high above the surf. His sure-footedness made Killua confident in their direction.

They trekked around to the east side of the mountain where the afternoon sun’s warmth was cooling to the shade of the mountain’s peak.

The rocky obstacles under their feet waned and their path levelled out when Gon’s steps pattered to a stop in front of him.

Killua looked around at their surroundings. They seemed to reach a plateau that extended towards the eastern shore. 

Here, the trees were ancient. Their roots snaked through the ground with a thickness that matched the width of the trees near the palace.

“Is this the place?” Killua wondered, taking in the dense quiet the trees afforded, his ears ringing after being wind-blown on their trip so far.

“I… think so.” Gon said, turning in a revolution to regard the area.

Killua pinned him with a quizzical look, “Didn’t the King give you directions?”

He had assumed that Gon had been here before, or at least been told where they were aiming to reach by means of landmarks.

“No. He said to follow the path to its conclusion,” Gon explained, although it was not much of an explanation as all Killua had seen was the two of them wading through underbrush and rocks in anything but a straight path.

“Is this that path’s conclusion?” Killua asked, watching as Gon tipped his head back towards the tops of the trees.

“I guess.”

“What do you mean, 'you guess?'” Killua raised a hand to cuff him on the side of the head when a new voice met their ears.

“Your instincts are sharp, son of Ging.”

The boys turned towards the new form, ducking under the arch of a root and walking towards them.

It wasn’t so much of a walk as a trot, for his chest was bare and the pale human skin of his abdomen slipping seamlessly into the glossy silver coat of a horse, his four hooves almost silent on the mossy ground as he approached.

Killua’s eyes widened and the lithe centaur’s voice reached them, strong and even, “I welcome you, but I was only told to expect one pupil.”

Before he could form the words to explain, Gon had stepped forwards and began speaking fearlessly to The Master, “I’ve brought my companion to train, as well.”

The centaur regarded them both, “Is that so? Has your mother sanctioned this pledge?”

It was clear from the question that the old master knew Gon’s mother had not sanctioned their companionship, but his friend pressed onwards.

“She has never sanctioned any companion,” Gon explained, “But it isn’t her choice. It’s mine, and I have chosen Killua.”

His pulse was strong in his neck as he watched the exchange. The Master’s eyes settled on him. They were human eyes, but their depth was infinite. Killua knew as soon as he was looked upon that this man had seen the best and worst of the world and was a fair judge of both. He knew he was being weighed on those same scales and poured his resolve into looking back with the same intensity.

This seemed to amuse him and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smile, his eyes falling back on Gon, “Very well, he may accompany you to your lessons, but he must prove his worth in the same ways you do, mortal or not.”

Gon didn’t need Killua’s nod of approval to accept the centaur's deal, sticking out his hand for him to shake.

This did make the man laugh. A rumble that shook the silvery hair that cascaded down his back.

“I will take you at your word, son of Ging.” The centaur replied.

Gon dropped his hand, the deal between the three of them settled.

“Master, if you would, call me Gon.”

He was being supremely formal. Killua was a little surprised, even though he knew it would wear off in the blink of an eye.

“Very well,” He replied, “Call me Kite.”

* * *

Kite told them many times, he was a master, not a teacher. Many of the things they needed to know, they would have to learn on their own.

To this end, he informed them that they would be charged with tasks that would stress the limits of their skills, abilities, and understandings and would only return to him when these were completed. Their goals could be physical, mental, or spiritual. They may come to him several times in a month, or not see him for weeks at a time. No path was incorrect.

Killua and Gon remained with Kite for a week that first trip.

They were welcomed into his home – a humble room with a floor of packed dirt and a roof of densely gnarled roots. He told them that it wasn’t so much of his home as his workshop. He liked to sleep under the stars, but he encouraged them to take sanctuary from the chilly weather inside. They had brought their own bedrolls and laid them out next to each other, sleeping only until dawn before they were springing from sleep to follow Kite on the duties he attended to on the mountain and surrounding area.

They learned that he was old. Older even than Gon’s mother and many of the gods they worshipped today.

He was a mentor of heroes, ones Gon had spun countless epics around for the enjoyment of their dinner-mates in the palace.

He was a protector of nature and animals. In his retirement, as he called it, his duties were to the island and its wellbeing. He helped to maintain the balance of living and dead, sick and healthy, young and old.

His immortality was powerful and he did many things not even Gon could dream of accomplishing as a demigod, but he allowed them to follow in awe and answered their questions with the patience of an eon’s old deity.

By the time the week came to a close, the one thing the boys had learned was respect. 

Truthfully, this was the best thing they could have come to understand in their time there. It meant that they took their first task seriously and wouldn’t dally in performing and returning to see what other magics the centaur would perform.

Their climb back down the mountain was determined and ecstatic.

They had a Master who was powerful and formidable. They had tasks that were meant to challenge them. And Killua was accepted - despite what Gon’s mother wanted. Despite what his family intended when they sent him there. 

He was training under a Master who had taught heroes and champions. An immortal who had seen the rise and fall of gods and titans. Someone who was willing to take on an exile and a mortal despite the feelings of a goddess.

The best part of it all, though, was that he was with Gon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I die of love for him, perfect in every way,  
> Lost in the strains of wafting music.
> 
> \- Abu Nuwas

A winter passed, and then another, and suddenly Killua’s third spring on Kujira burst around him like the unfolding of a canopy tree flower.

The boys kept their vow, limbs growing longer and appetite for food and adventure growing ravenous.

Killua was beginning to forget a time when he and Gon were not together every moment of the day.

When tasks took them away from the palace, they would sleep under the stars or on the limbs of trees, naming animals and plants they had become familiar with, scavenging and hunting for food with proficiency not usually attributed to princes. 

They visited Aunt Mito in her temple often, her table halfway between Kite’s home and the palace. She would offer them a chair to rest on and someone to chatter to about their adventures and lessons.

Gon’s demi-god skin didn’t stop every cut or bruise. Killua learned to treat them with the right ointment and snide comment,  _ How do you manage to get injured? You are half-god, aren’t you? _

Always to Gon’s persistent reply, _ I’m also half-mortal _ .

When they puzzled over Kite’s riddles or were made to collect a number of items for the old master, they would return to the stability of the palace. 

Killua’s pallet was still tucked in the corner of Gon’s room, under the window that never seemed to be without a cool, salty breeze.

The lyre remained on Gon’s writing table.

When the prophecy was fulfilled (as Killua knew it would be) and the bards played Gon’s life as a song, Killua knew that all of the measures of his youth would be high and clear. Full of energy and hope. Never faltering from one note to the next.

Killua couldn’t play the tune, and he didn’t want to. On any human instrument, the melody would sound dull and weak compared to the ringing of Gon’s laughter and the lilt of his words, but he couldn’t help but wonder how the melody of Gon would sound to those who had never known him.

When they were at the palace, he was content to relinquish Gon to the other boys when they took meals, although he no longer sat at the far end of the table, hidden from the chaos. Now, he was firmly entrenched in it – goaded and shamed by the other boys if he failed to lend his voice or hands to Gon’s dinnertime performances. At first, it had made him blush and sputter but with time, he would adopt a crackling falsetto to play the heroine or an equally crackling bass to play the villain with no shame or worry.

He shared Gon with the others, no longer fearing that they would be separated. He had come to learn that Gon’s friendliness was his nature. Killua admired how trusting and open he was with everyone he met. There was bravery in seeing the best in people and it was something Killua couldn’t bear for Gon to lose. He was content to be the cynical shadow if it meant Gon could keep his childlike trust in the inherent goodness of humanity.

The boys around them were occupied with more important matters, anyway. The blossoming of their youth signalling the adventurousness of the older boys.

Their wine was no longer watered down and they no longer kept their hands to themselves when evening blanketed their actions and inhibitions. 

Many would trail down to the city after dinner and go to the taverns or brothels, others would escape to the woods with giggling serving girls or their fellow wards and not return until the early hours of the morning.

They were all testing out the limits of their youth and freedom. 

Even though Gon and Killua were the youngest of their fellows, they were often encouraged to join in their escapades. Wine glasses filled to the brim were placed in front of them, eyebrows were quirked in their direction as the wards trickled out towards the road to town. 

What the others didn’t know, what perhaps Gon and Killua themselves didn’t quite realize, was the unspoken agreement that passed between the boys when they were taken on as Kite’s students - that they would drink their childhood down to the dregs now that they had the chance to be free. Free from the burdens of princehood, of prophecy and responsibility. 

They didn’t need a distraction from monotony, because Kite was a thorough and unrelenting Master and they were dedicated students.

Kite’s specialty was heroes. Gon was no exception. 

The first time Kite and Killua saw Gon wield a sword and spear, they were taken aback. His technique was unlike anything a Master could instruct. 

It was all instinct and accuracy that could only have come as the gift from the gods to be wielded for their glory. 

He would grunt and snarl with the effort of it, but it was surely no effort at all. He fought with the grace of a dancer and a relentlessness that made something in Killua itch to draw arms against him, just to see the snap of his sword arm up close.

There was an appeal to it that was completely opposite to the merciless drills and lawless practice fights his father subjected him to daily on Kukuroo.

He wasn’t guided by bloodlust or cruelty when he sparred with Gon. He was able to enjoy the simple motion of swinging his sword instead of calculating the brute force it would take to remove his enemy’s head from his shoulders. He could set his sights on outsmarting his partner instead of catching him off guard with a cheap trick.

Kite didn’t criticize their blade work, both more accomplished than most full-grown men, but one afternoon when Gon had dropped his sword and shield and sprinted from the meadow to leap into the river, Killua was halted.

“If you want to protect him,” Kite said in a low, contemplative voice, “You can’t give up when the fight looks too difficult.”

Killua swallowed, his chest still heaving from their match.

He let Kite trot away, his words drawing up memories laced with anxiety from his lessons on Kukuroo. His brother’s warnings ringing in his ears.

Gon pulled him out of the meditation, calling to him from the river.

Killua didn’t let himself dwell on it.

He had a reason to fight - to stay and protect something other than his own skin.

He wasn’t a Zoldyck any longer. 

* * *

Time passed quickly. 

They learned to hunt and cook and scavenge. They learned to watch for the pattern of animal prints in the mud and subtle changes in the wind. They became swordsmen that surpassed the guidance of the palace master-at-arms, though they hid their talents from the other wards. 

They learned and grew and changed, the world along with them.

Killua’s days were filled with Gon and as time went by, he found that his nights were choked with apparitions of him.

The angles of his face were more pronounced now than ever before, their adolescence shedding from their bones like a snake’s skin. 

In dreams, Killua ran a finger over the defined planes. In these visions, they would clasp hands after a successful fish caught, or tree climbed, but Gon would wind their fingers together and not let go.

His imagination turned every innocent action during the day into a torturous catalogue of tan skin and shoulder blades and the taut tendons of his hand. It would rouse him from sleep, flushed and embarrassed, listening for the murmurs of Gon’s stirring, breathing only when he was sure he still slept.

His consolation was that he was still young and these feelings would pass. Gon was growing faster than he was, his godliness lending to the springing of his height and the darkening of his body’s fine hair. 

Still, when pretty girls called to him on the street or wards beaconed him out with them, Gon would turn with a good-natured wave and tug Killua away.

It relieved him to know Gon had no appetite for others. That he would rather retire with Killua to throw dice or sing to him in the soft candlelight of their room than wander the streets with the other boys. 

It also eased that small knot in Killua’s neck that if Gon had no desire for the other ward’s diversions, he was premature in thinking he would. 

Once his throat was pronounced and his legs were muscled instead of aching from the strain of growing then, like the older boys, Killua’s desires would outweigh his unease and one of the women who flitted past him would catch his eye.

He was sure of it.

* * *

Ging returned to the island for the solstice festival, bringing splendours from distant lands. 

He brought instruments and people to play them, food and people to serve it, wine and friends to drink it. The air on Kujira was not yet thick with summer heat, the sweetness of spring blooms still fresh in the air.

The festival brought high ladies to dazzle and courtiers to impress and Gon shone with it.

His charm lay in his simplicity. He was honest and naïve, and the courtiers adored him in the way everyone had always adored Gon.

He’d never been good with words, though. He was a warrior, created from the coupling of a domineering king and an antisocial goddess who was raised only on praise and adoration of his loyal subjects. 

Killua spent much of his life in a pit of vipers, having to charm and cajole everyone he met. He always thinking through every word before it even touched his lips. He could bestow honorifics and speak in double meaning as easily as he could scale a tree.

They were a well-balanced duo and remained close by one another, Killua’s nose always twitching for an ill wish or underhanded compliment, Gon’s face open for the acceptance of the goodwill and praise he expected.

_ The prince and his companion,  _ The guests would say as the boys passed. Their smiles were jovial and round. The way smiles were when a family of ducklings or a litter of puppies were paraded before them.

Gon’s quickly approaching 14 th birthday was more than enough reason for him to be the guest of honour and Ging made it clear that, as they took their first steps towards manhood, he expected them to fill up on excitement and indulgence so their thirst for life would not wane.

The boys had taken him at his word and missed no game or event hosted throughout the city and palace, but Killua’s time in the Kukuran Court gave him enough reason to look for claws on every creature, and he couldn’t help but look beyond the King’s words.

He and Gon had been welcomed to the man’s study the night he returned, as they always were. 

Killua had been bashful by how quickly Ging’s warmth spread to him, unfurling from mere cordiality to kindliness. It helped him to understand the pride Gon had towards his King and patriarch, the shadow of it in Killua’s own heart.

They sat in front of the fire while Ging, from his plush chair, recounted stories of his conquests and adventures.

Killua had been leaning along the leg of the chair opposite the King, Gon spread on the rug near the fire. 

Halfway through an interlude about a diplomatic surrender, Gon had shuffled towards Killua. His eyes blinked heavily with fatigue and he threw himself on Killua’s outstretched legs. His head was solid and heavy on Killua’s thighs and he suppressed the jitter that came to him involuntarily knowing Gon’s serenity lay in his lap.

As the diplomacy turned to carnage, Gon quit idly tracing the outlines of bones on Killua’s knee and shin, his drowsiness forgotten as weapons were drawn.

Killua’s skin tingled long into the night.

The King had said nothing about it then, but days later as they chased each other through the festival, long legs bounding over the well-worn stone floor - stomachs full and heads light - Killua understood what Ging intended for them to indulge in.

Ging caught them by the scruffs as they raced by, depositing them in front of two girls, faces round and rosy, and introducing them as the daughters of courtiers who came to enjoy the summer in Kujira. 

Killua felt his heart lurch in his chest as Ging thumped them encouragingly on the back and strode off.

Killua had opened up much since he had come to Kujira but he hadn’t held a conversation with a girl that was more than a market transaction or Aunt Mito since he got here. It didn’t help that he couldn’t shake Ging’s suspiciously attentive behaviour. Usually he had drunk and danced himself into a frenzy by this point and was betting his guests he could balance his sword point on his nose like one of the performers.

The wheels turned in Killua’s head as Gon greeted the blushing girls cordially.

He didn’t catch their names as they curtsied and batted their eyelashes at Gon, looking over his shoulder to see Ging seated in a rowdy mass of courtiers and townsfolk.

At Killua’s glance, Ging raised a tankard above his head and gave him an exaggerated wink.

A wave of heat crashed over Killua’s face as his foggy gaze turned back towards the conversation in front of him. Of course Ging was using this as an opportunity to introduce them to his life of debauchery. Killua clenched his teeth tightly, trying to ward off the chill that built in his shoulders at the idea.

He had only taken two steadying breaths before Gon was nudging him with a bony elbow.

“Isn’t that right, Killua?” Gon encouraged, yanking him from mist his mind had been caught behind.

Killua trained his eyes on Gon, consciousness returning to focus on the smattering of freckles that played across the bridge of his nose - meeting the expectant light in his eyes.

He opened his mouth to respond but shut it when he realized he hadn't heard the question. For all he knew, Gon could have been asking to bring them up the mountain to train with Kite.

“We were just headed to bed?” Gon supplied when he saw the crook of Killua’s eyebrow.

With a nod and tight smile that accompanied Gon’s apology to the two girls, the two of them ducked back into the crowd, peeling towards the castle as fast as their sandaled feet could take them.

The night was still young, they could have remained in the streets until dawn, but neither complained as they wound their way up to the castle.

They didn’t stop running until they burst through their bedroom door, falling onto the cold stones and panting in the silent stillness that enclosed them.

Their room was serene and sacred and Killua could feel the anxiety seep out of him as the breath returned to his lungs.

“Did you want to stay with them?” Gon wondered through the dark, the smallness of his voice piercing through Killua.

“No,” He replied honestly, “Did you?”

Gon was quiet for a long moment and Killua didn’t dare turn towards him, despite the darkness pressing down on them.

“No.” He said, finally.

The only sound in the room was the crashing waves below them and the distant sound of revelries from the city.

* * *

The energy of the festival dispersed through the warm summer days. 

The influx of culture and creation with each of Ging’s return trips sent a ripple through Kujira that kept excitement and anxiety high in the city.

The castle hummed with energy, bodies crowding the halls and noises calling attention from every crevice of the building.

Killua could feel Gon’s restlessness like a flutter in his own legs. 

He wanted to ask him to go to the mountains - to get out of the claustrophobic palace and city and to rise above the clamour - but Ging didn’t return as often as he once had. Killua knew that his duty to his father outweighed his need to be far into the serenity of the forest.

When he woke to find Gon’s bed empty, he didn’t question it. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave before dawn to pay visits to his mother down at the beach.

He dressed and went to the kitchens for the warm first slices of bread.

The cook started when they saw him, “Oh, I thought you would have gone off with the Young Prince.”

Killua cocked his head at the insinuation, “Was he here?”

The cook nodded, “Put a ration in his pack not long ago and left out the back.”

Killua stepped out of the door and saw the dusty prints from his sandals.

He abandoned the pack in his room and slice of bread in his hand and followed.

.

It didn’t take him long to catch up to Gon. There were no other paths to follow but his, crusted into the morning dew and wafting towards him on the breeze.

Gon sang a melody that Killua had heard boisterously yelled by sailors, arm and arm with one another, and between jesting wards at the dinner table. Its lyrics spoke of a maid so enchanting, men from every corner of the world came to try for her hand and pledged to defend her honour to their death even if she didn’t choose them as a husband.

Gon was tearing up the tender flesh of a leaf as he trekked through the underbrush, head swivelling in front of him.

Killua climbed the wide trunk of the densely packed trees, following above Gon silently across the thick boughs of the low branches.

He purposefully let his toe graze a branch, the leaves shuddering under his movement. Gon’s reaction with immediate, his melody cut short as Killua tucked himself against the truck, peering around once Gon’s head was turned again.

He jumped to the next tree, but Gon was on high alert and turned his head behind him, frozen to listen to the sounds of the forest.

He stifled a smile behind his hand, Gon’s intensity reminding him of the hunting dogs on Kukuroo - sniffing for blood.

Gon had barely crept down the slope he stood on, his stance low and guarded. Killua realized that he was too on edge to tease anymore so, with a powerful swing from the branch above him, he launched himself at Gon with a war cry. They fell to the cushioned ground, the slope of the forest floor sending them tumbling through the underbrush, limbs tangling in their fall.

Hands grabbed at him, wrapping around his neck, heels locked under his knees and bringing them to a forceful stop at the base of the hill.

Killua was sprawled on the moss, the protective cage of Gon’s arms still encircling him. The smile on his face and the confusion on Gon’s mirroring their state before the fall.

“What are you doing here?” Gon asked first, his eyes already having swept Killua’s face and finding no trace of injury or upset.

“Listening to my favourite song.” Killua smiled, the truth of his statement veiled behind his teasing.

Gon didn’t level any challenge at him, “I thought everyone was going into town today.”

Killua felt quite content to lay there in the breezy forest, the clatter of the city far away, “You weren’t.”

“You would have had fun today. I’m just going into the forest.” Gon insisted, Killua could see the confliction of his emotions, a layer of reluctance on top of a layer of confusion on top of a layer of guilt. His face betrayed it all.

“Gon.” Killua drew his attention, “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow.”

Killua was surprised by the frankness of his words. He was even more surprised that he really meant it. The longer he stayed on Kujira, the more comfortable he felt with their candour. The simplicity of saying what you meant without cushions or barriers for others to sift through.

Killua reached up, a leaf poking out of the hair near Gon’s ear. He plucked it and held it in front of his face.

“Were you saving this for something important?” Killua wondered, the mocking soaking into his voice as he peered over the top of it.

Gon pushed away from him with a huff, his face turned towards the treeline, “Of course not,” He muttered, his hand reaching up to rake through his hair for any other gifts from their tumble.

Killua thought he saw pink tinting the tips of Gon’s ears but said nothing as the two jostled instead of helping each other up.

They continued through the forest, the melody of the trees underscoring their conversation, their self-consciousness left behind in a boy-shaped imprint on the forest floor.

* * *

There was a lustre to summers on Kujira. Everything was full and ripe and so vividly green that sometimes it hurt Killua to look at.

The sun rose early to rouse them from slumber and set lazily to give them the extra few hours to clamber back to the palace or Kite’s mountain top - knees scraped and nails ringed with dirt - grins unrelenting.

Killua felt a change in himself, at the same time. He noticed moments when he had to stop his hands from reaching out to Gon. Had to stop himself from watching for too long, the force of his self-awareness waving like a red flag above his head every time he acknowledged his focused attentions.

He couldn’t escape this feeling because it trailed behind him as he trailed behind Gon. It was close enough that if he stopped for too long it would bump into his back and send him reeling towards oblivion. 

He couldn’t risk ruining everything.

It didn’t help that Gon continued on as they always had.

Killua would wake to the warmth of Gon’s body next to his, every nerve and pore on his body attentive to the incessant caress of it. 

His nose would be full of the scent of him. The heavy air of the forest that still clung to his skin, the saltiness of the ocean still thick in his hair, the strong undercurrent of  _ him _ through it all. 

He was subjected to the press of his skin when they wrestled and fought, the brush of his cheek when they muttered secrets, the press of his hands when they waded through the forest or the busy city square.

The only time he flinched away from him was near the sea. When they kicked through the frothy surf and lay on the golden sand, he could feel the eyes of Gon’s closest protector bearing into the back of his head and prickling the hair on his neck.

He wouldn’t stop long enough to find out what this silent, pestering emotion was that followed so closely it threatened to topple his delicately assembled happiness.

He knew with a loyalty he’d never felt to his Zoldyck title that this was where he was meant to be. His fate was tied to Gon’s like a ribbon tied to the railing of a warship. 

He would be there, no matter how insignificant.

He would rather live the rest of his days one step ahead of these emotions and one step behind Gon than risk this life slipping out of his grasp.

He would be there until the stars had burned out and the gods found their graves. He would stay because Gon was more than a friend. He was more than a brother or a prince, he was life itself. He had ignited a light in Killua, one that brightened all of the dark shadows that once crushed and suffocated him and hadn’t shied away from all of the terrible things that light revealed.

All he wanted was the time he had with Gon to stretch into a lifetime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just wanted to thank you all for your kind comments! It's really fulfilling (and intimidating) to know there are people reading my work (and seeing all my typos/half-baked metaphors) so thank you for encouraging me to keep going. 
> 
> The next chapter is the final one in this first arc. Afterwards, I'll be taking a short break to get through my finals and exams, but I hope to leave you in a pretty satisfying place (probably a good reprieve, cause the next arc is going to be....... let's just say it's not going to be as feel-good as this one).


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